In many ways adjusting, or readjusting, to the dreaded night feed(s) is a lot like the stages of loss or grief.

Maybe it’s because you’re grieving for the loss of a decent night’s sleep, whatever the reason I thought I would share what joy we have been experiencing every night since we foolishly decided to have another child so soon after the first one finally decided to sleep through. Idiots.

1. Denial (11.30pm)

The baby has finished his latest feed in record time, has been winded successfully and is quietly snoozing in his moses basket. I’ve finally cracked this whole motherhood thing, no one can do this better than me, tonight is the night this little shit bundle of joy will sleep for longer than two hours straight. I can feel it. Sleep is mine.

2. Anger (11.32pm)

He’s awake and pretty annoyed at being swaddled within an inch of his life.

2. Anger (12.02am)

Why won’t he stop crying? He’s just so angry.

2. Anger (12.47am)

How the f*ck is my husband sleeping through this tirade of abuse I’m getting from a screaming child? How is it even possible? What if I kick him awake? I’d better not kick him.

2. Anger (1am)

I kicked him. He’s awake and asking what I’ve done to annoy the baby. Seriously? I GAVE HIM LIFE (My go-to answer for anyone questioning my parenting).

2. Anger (1.12am)

Traitorous baby falls asleep on husband’s chest within minutes. I hate them both. Well, just the husband; at least the baby is cute. Right, sleep time.

3. Bargaining (3am)

I can hear stirring. Please, God, no. I swear to Christ I will definitely stick to my diet tomorrow and not plonk the toddler in front of tv all day if I can just have a decent stretch of sleep. I will definitely go for a run before everyone wakes up and tackle the laundry. I swear. If I just get some sleep, I’ll have the energy to be ‘Super Mum’. I know it!

2. Anger (3.04am)

He’s awake, well it looks like Cebeebies will be babysitting tomorrow while I eat chocolate. I’ll just burn the dirty clothes.

4. Depression (3.30am-4.40am)

I’m feeling very sorry for myself. Baby looking smug about keeping me up. Clearly this is my husband’s fault; I’m going to hide one of his shoes tomorrow. He’ll have to go into the office with only one and then he’ll be forced to fashion himself a new pair from office supplies. I’m over-thinking this. I need sleep. Maybe I should kick him again.

5. Acceptance (6am)

Did I fall asleep? Does blinking count as actual sleep? Maybe I should Google it. He’s asleep. I can hear toddler talking to himself over the monitor. At least it’s Saturday, Daddy can take over while I have a lie in.

We’re coming to the end of your Dad’s Paternity Leave and the reality of being home alone with the two of you is finally hitting me.
Before I start to panic and turn this post into a rambling essay of sheer terror, I think I’ll concentrate on the good parts of the last two week.

You’re now officially an older brother.

I’ve been having visions of you trying to subtly trying to bump off this usurper but thankfully, you don’t mind the miniature version of your Dad.
He has caused little to no disruption to your day-to-day life so far.
In fact you barely notice him unless he starts to squeak for a feed from his Moses Basket (yes, squeak.)

With you being called ‘Bear’ it was only a matter of time before the newbie got his own nickname. It’s Bosco.
We’re not quite sure why but it’s easier to remember than Oscar.

For some reason Mummy has been unable to remember his actual name and has been referring to him as ‘baby’ since he made an appearance.
At least Bosco seems a bit more personal.

You’ve taken to petting his head and saying ‘ssh’ when he is unsettled – possibly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen – so it seems that the worry of how you will adjust was unnecessary.
What your parents should have been concentrating on was how on earth we can ever leave the house again.
For the last two days we’ve been trying to make it into town to get a few groceries but we’ve yet again reached the afternoon and you’re asleep, Bosco is asleep and we’re both too exhausted to brush our teeth never mind look presentable for the outside world.

I’ve now accepted that when your Dad goes back to work, I’m never leaving the house again.
The good news is: we’re no longer homeless! But that’s a whole other post.
Basically in the last two weeks we’ve undergone two of the most stressful life changes simultaneously and we’re going to be living out of boxes for the foreseeable because I don’t have the energy to unpack anything.
Don’t worry, I’ve found us underwear and toothbrushes: we’re golden.

When we had you it was all about learning how to look after a tiny (ish) baby and you’d think this time it would be a lot easier. It isn’t.
Clearly I’d blocked out the sheer exhaustion that comes with the night feeds but, again, I’m very lucky that your Dad is great at taking his share and letting me sleep.

The first time round I completely agreed with the advice: ‘sleep when the baby does’ but sadly this doesn’t work so well when you have to stay awake and look after a toddler.
So really, my sleep deprivation is ALL YOUR FAULT.
I’m kidding, although I am surviving on a lot of chocolate and currently still look pregnant.
Fun times.

Now, as much as I’ve enjoyed dedicating this little blog to you over the last year we took the decision that we should probably add Bosco to the equation, before he gets old enough to question if you’re the favourite.
With that in mind, your Dad has put together this new website for you both which will grow with the family.
This will be the new home for all our new adventures along with some other bits and pieces I’ll be working on.

I’ve decided to find a brush and try and tame this mop of hair. It’s looking far too similar to a lion’s mane at the minute and I’m just not confident enough to pull off a look like that.
If your Dad starts calling me ‘Mufasa’ I may kill him.

With Baby McGivern number two making an appearance later this week I thought I would use some of my limited free time to do a quick recap of the last nine months.

It’s clearly no secret that I don’t enjoy this whole pregnancy malarkey but, as usual, if I sit down and really think about it I did realise there were parts that weren’t horrendous – I’m looking at you second trimester.

The Parts I Hated:

An obvious one to kick us off: sickness (and all that comes with it).
Although I was determined to stay out of hospital this time around, the baby had other plans. No matter what combination of liquid I tried it was not for staying down. I finally admitted defeat and was admitted for some fasting and IV fluids.
It’s always a joy.
Again, this sickness lasted from weeks 9-18.
Although this was pretty similar to the first time round, I got a lovely surprise in the third trimester with another bout of dehydration – meaning more fasting and IV fluids.
Thanks for keeping things fresh, body.

The whole hyperemesis debacle was bad enough but throw in looking after a toddler at the same time and you’ve entered a whole new circle of hell.
I will forever be grateful to ‘Despicable Me’ (1&2) for helping to put Bear into a zombie-like trance for 90 minutes so I could lie perfectly still on the sofa – for fear of any movement resulting in a fresh wave of nausea.

Ah who am I kidding? Even when I was feeling better Despicable Me came to my rescue. I may be able to quote every line from that movie but it granted me freedom during the day and I’m not remotely sorry about it.

Connected to the sickness was guilt.

Guilt that I had to keep saying ‘no’ to Bear when he wanted to play and having to rely on Conor to be the main entertainer of the household. He got to be the fun one and I was a miserable lump who lifted her head off the pillow from time to time.

That brings me nicely on to the next part I hated: My husband.

I hated everything about him. His smell (not in a gross bodily order way, just his general aroma), the way he breathed, if he whistled – ESPECIALLY WHEN HE WHISTLED, the fact that he could be the fun one and carry on relatively unaffected and the most cardinal sin of all: when he said ‘we’ were pregnant.
This is a major pet peeve of mine, I could probably write a sizable blog rant about this but I’ll not bore you with it.
To sum it up: no, we are not pregnant Iam pregnant. You are just lucky I don’t smother you in your sleep*

*something I may have thought about it from time to time when he was breathing on me.

Next up: The Clicky Noise
I haven’t come across anyone else complaining about this during their gestation period but it’s still driving me crazy.
Every night, without fail, I’m woken up by a clicky noise – yes that’s the medical name…
I don’t know what the hell it is, it just happens when I’m trying to breathe when sleeping.
Every breath in *click*, every breath out *click* (you get the idea).
And it’s because of this noise I end up spending the rest of the night awake.
After failing to get back to sleep I traipse downstairs and sit on the sofa watching trash tv at 3am; just me and the clicky noise.
Sometimes Mum’s cat keeps me company, which I don’t mind as she’s a good listener – she doesn’t know what the clicky noise is either.

And lastly: Bleugh
I do not look good pregnant. All these glowing ladies that have tiny bumps and energy completely baffle me.
They’re like mythical creatures. I hate them.
I don’t glow, I eat clinically worrying amounts of chocolate and if I didn’t have legitimate reasons to get up in the morning I would spend nine months in bed.
Despite Conor’s best attempts, I rebuke any type of compliment and suspiciously eye him up if he tries to tell me I look beautiful.
I’m a delight to live with during this time, I swear.

There are positive points to this time, no really.The Parts I Loved:

First Up: Getting to be completely unreasonable
Not that I would ever admit that I was being unreasonable, but I have found that every whim is granted.
I don’t let the power go to my head (tempting as it is) but I have been making the most of requesting all types of food at any time.
Yes, I’m a walking cliché and I don’t care.
Conor has mostly been sent for fried chicken and chocolate late at night, and God help him if he dares come back with something that was not on the list.

The list is sacred, there is no room for improvisation; I believe he went to four different shops in search of a particular brand of lemonade because he was too scared to return home without it.
If he tried to convince me that I didn’t really need the cheesy toast at 2am, he was swiftly told: “I’m
creating life.”
Poor guy. I love it.

Secondly: Being Looked After
I think I’m a great patient, I suspect others will disagree.
I love nothing more than being told I can go rest because ‘it’s good for the baby’ and then I’m brought toast in bed.
I’m easily pleased.
As we’ve been living in Mum’s while our house is getting work done, the opportunity to rest is even more frequent.
There’s nothing like coming home and being looked after by your Mum.
I get washing and cooking done for me, it’s wonderful. She also leaves a duvet out for me for when I inevitably have to get up and lie on the sofa in the middle of the night.

This swiftly brings me on to the next part I loved: My Husband.
See? I’m not all that bad.
The late night food runs, holding my hair back while I got sick, the late night conversations when he tries to get me to calm down about the clicky noise, his excitement at the thought of having another baby and telling me I look beautiful every single day – even the days when I literally look grey and feel like I’m the size of a house.
He’s been pretty damn great, despite being up against a raving lunatic.

And finally: Kicks.
There is nothing more amazing in this world that being punched and kicked constantly by an overactive bump.
Compared to Bear, this baby has been ridiculously active at any given time.
I think it’s his way of keeping my worry levels down to a minimum.
There’s been noticeably less dashes to the assessment unit because he’s always ‘there’.
Even when I complain about the constant nudging preventing me from getting a decent night’s sleep, I live for these movements.

All being well, I will finally get to meet this new baby in four days time. Four days, Christ.
I’d better make the most of the food runs and daytime naps before I have to be held accountable for my diet and sleeping schedule.

I had envisioned a picture perfect moment of the two of us browsing through the titles and then signing you up for your own card.
Despite the fact that all I really want to do at 37 weeks pregnant is sit on a massage chair with a tub of fried chicken and any type of chocolate, I was determined to make this happen.

I should have quit as soon as I realised what form you were in this morning.
After a lie in (we started well), you woke up an emotional mess demanding doooooast (toast).
The toaster wouldn’t heat the bread quick enough so that kicked off the first meltdown of the day.
When the toast was done, on the plate and sitting at your table you shot me a look of absolute disgust.
Clearly I was trying to poison you with this crap!
You waddled over to the fridge demanding a yogurt. Request approved, spoon acquired and again it was left on your table.
And that’s when meltdown number two happened.
I took the pointing and crying at the offending breakfast items to mean: “What the hell is this?!”

The rest of the morning pretty much followed the same pattern; but thankfully there was hope on the horizon,
A magical reset button called: nap time.
Off you went, without much of an argument, and I settled down on the sofa to continue my love/hate relationship with Pinterest.
It was at this moment that the builders decided to start pulling up the pavement outside the house.
Funnily enough this didn’t equate to relaxing background noise.
Nap time abandoned, I continued on with my library plan.
You were going to enjoy this excursion, even if it killed me.

After wrestling you into your clothes for the day, we set off.
We secured a parking space close to the library (that’s harder than you think) and strolled through hailstones because you refused to be lifted.
To be fair, you’re a bloody lump so meandering though the bitter cold was better than a hernia.
Giggling in the lift was a good start, and when we walked through the door your face lit up to see the pirate ships containing all the books.
I could practically see the ‘Hallmark’ card image.
That’s when things went hideously, hideously wrong.

After a grand total of 12 seconds looking at books you spotted the computers to the right of the room.
You had a head start as your weeble-shaped mother tried her best to get off the tiny children’s chair.
You managed to get the attention of one woman who was watching ‘Mrs Brown’s Boys’ on YouTube (so I don’t feel too guilty about interrupting her ‘study’).
Pulling at her sleeve you let her know that it was your turn on the computer.
With apologetic eyes, I tried to lift you away but you managed to slip your chubby arms free of the jacket.
From then, things got farcical.
I had to chase this little armless toddler around a table before finally lifting a slug-like wriggling maniac who was screaming bloody murder.
I could feel everyone staring extra hard at their screens as they tried to ignore the hapless mother with her ill-behaved child.
I wanted the ground to swallow me up.
Although I managed to get you back over to the children’s section, you decided my embarrassment hadn’t *quite* reached capacity.
You took it upon yourself to run up to a Chinese woman and her daughter, grab her hand and pull her towards the door.
It was like she was your last chance to escape your monster of a mother who was beating you.
The poor woman didn’t know where to look.
Should she take this child’s literal cries for help seriously?
Thankfully she didn’t, and escorted you back to your red-faced mum who was trying to check out three of the first books she could grab – yes, I was refusing to leave empty-handed.

Funnily enough, as soon as we left the building and were back in the hailstones you were fine.
Your tears magically dried up and you had a nice little chat of gibberish with me the whole way back to the car.

The drive home and subsequent lunch was in stony silence as I tried to process who the hell this demon child was?

Your books aren’t due back until next month and I’m going to need that time to recover.
I did get my picture though.
Of you and your Dad reading.
That’s right, you and your bloody Father got to have a lovely evening reading your books as I sat traumatised in the corner.

We’re told that parenting is a learning curve.
This implies some sort of gentle gradient from novice to expert over the first few months.
For me, and I suspect I’m not alone, it was more of a shove off a high diving board into quick sand.
If you don’t struggle, you don’t sink – this means: outwardly I look like I’m perfectly calm but inside I’m screaming…
I’m sticking with this theory.

Your Dad’s first panic and/or realisation he was responsible for another human was the first evening we were home from the hospital.
I asked him to go upstairs and get a sleep suit. He dutifully went and didn’t come back down for at least five minutes.

When he returned he was sweating and looked like he needed a strong drink.
It was then he explained in sheer panic: “I don’t know what a sleep suit is!”
This confession clearly meant he’d already failed as a parent.
Strike one, Daddy.
After he finally stopped pacing the floor like an inmate on death row I explained it was just pajamas.
Trauma over with minimal damage to you in later life. Phew.

Despite having nieces and nephews, this ‘practise’ in no way prepared us for what lay (and lies) ahead.
Although we look like we seem to have things under control, trust me when I say: “We are still furiously paddling under the surface.”
So, with that confidential tidbit shared on the internet, here are a few more things I’ve learned over the last 20 months.

1. I hate Postman Pat.
I mean I really hate the guy. I have a little rant every morning about his ineptitude as a postal worker and yet he’s still regarded as a hero. I mean, he got his own bloody movie.
For example: he RUINED a child’s birthday party by showing up hours late with their bouncy castle then his annoying cat wrecked it with her nails.
He covered the lot in tiny plasters so the kids could eventually go on it and he was celebrated as the saviour of the party.
Had everyone forgotten that he was the one that ruined it in the first place? Well, had they? Yes, apparently they had. Gah.
It’s been pointed out that if he was really ‘good’ at his job it wouldn’t make for a very interesting cartoon; but that’s not the point.
I wish you liked Dinopaws more, it’s hilarious.
You regularly put your hand over my mouth mid-rant when I talk over it though so I guess the real lesson is: I’m willing to put up with things I hate if it makes you happy.

2. Babysitters are Precious
B.B (Before Bear) Your Dad and I would go out. A lot. Then complain that we were always broke.
Now, we have to be select on what we are willing to cash in our babysitter coupons for.
The desire to leave the house and be part of the outside world has to be weighed up against if it’s worth organising a babysitter for.
When we do call in the babysitting favour, we also have to weigh up ‘that’ next drink with the potential hangover the following day.
As I’ve said before: hangovers and babies do not mix.
When the stars align and we decide to head out like carefree adults and ignore the sensible voice in our head saying: “You don’t need that double”, we make the most of it.
The night’s out are appreciated a lot more than they were and are usually needed to be organised months in advance.
The lesson here is: We make the most of our ‘free’ time but still don’t know when to stop drinking.

3. Everything is potential death trap.
Anything and everything can be viewed as a killing machine. Yes, even that teddy you’re holding.
What if you squeeze it too tight, the eye pops off and somehow lands in your mouth, lodging itself in your throat?
Say ‘bye-bye’ to teddy and get back into your bubble of solitude.
It doesn’t matter how many times in the day I say: “Careful” or “Watch” you in no way heed me and I usually find you up to no good (this is definitely your Dad’s influence).

Electrocution, food poisoning, drowning… you name it and I’ve thought of some far-fetching and horrific scenario.
It’s because of this that I feel like I’m regularly preventing you from having any type of fun.
Fortunately your Dad is more relaxed than me and is seen throwing you around the place while a live electrical cable is around your throat (slight exaggeration, I grant you).
Lesson: Between the two extremes, you’re bound to make it through to your teenage years at least.

4. I’m affectionate (who knew?)
I’m not great at hugging. I find it awkward and I usually end up embarrassed by the whole situation.
Again, your Dad is the opposite. For years he was used to hugging me as I stood, stiff as a board, not quite sure what to do with my arms.
However, I find nothing embarrassing about smothering you with hugs and kisses – in fact you’ve got the whole ‘Mum, get off me’ teenager look down to a fine art.
You’ve become a very huggy baby and it’s lovely to get morning kisses from you – without having to ask for them.
The more I give you affection, the less embarrassed and awkward I feel about hugging other people.
At 29 I’m finally growing as a person – took long enough.

There’s plenty more where these came from; and I’d like to think that with the appearance of your brother at the end of the month there will be a whole heap more.

Before you start juicing that fruit and boiling up cabbage for soup I want to introduce you to a revolutionary new diet regime: The Toddler Diet.

It’s a simple, life changing diet that will leave you hungry, irritable, unsatisfied but thinner!

All you need is a toddler to sit with you for every meal you attempt to eat – it’s that easy!

Since Oliver started eating solids properly, he hasn’t been satisfied with what is on his plate. It has to be whatever is on his, mine, his Dad’s, the stranger’s sitting at the table next to us and so on.

It’s because of this (coupled with the perpetual guilt I feel if I don’t give him what’s on my plate in case he starves) that I now have an enviable figure*

*Enviable in this instance means I look like a Weeble and shuffle around like one too.

So if you want to lose weight fast and be just like me, all you just have to follow these three easy steps.

1. Get a toddler (mine is available for hire).

Make sure it’s not one of those fussy eating types or you will end up putting on weight by mindlessly eating their leftovers when clearing the table after meals – just me? Ok, never mind.Another important trait needed in your toddler is complete clinginess; that way you can’t secretly snack while they are independently playing.

This kid also needs to be able to hear the rustle of a chocolate wrapper or the opening of a biscuit tin from 20 feet.

This is a skill Oliver has down to a fine art.

Even when I check I have the all-clear and he’s playing with his trains, all I need to do is think about a biscuit and he’s standing beside me with that look.

It’s a look that says: “You should eat fruit, we both should; but we both know you’re going for that biscuit tin and you’re sadly mistaken if you think I’m going to let you eat one and not give at least half to me. I’m not afraid to scream.”

2.Eat at the table.

Never mind the social aspect of doing this, this is really so everything on your plate is within reach of their chubby little hands.

Remember to give them a fork so if you’re tempted to move your plate out of reach they can use this tool to drag things off your plate.

If they can’t reach it they will have a handy contingency plan of screaming blue bloody murder until you relent.

3.Leave all will power at the door.

Don’t bother starting each meal with renewed resolve to eat a complete meal on your own, it won’t last (see perpetual guilt above).

And that’s that.

After a few months of this the pounds will drop off and with only a few real side effects (loss of sanity, inability to eat a complete meal without looking over your shoulder and eating ridiculously hot food resulting in the burning of your tongue before the toddler can reach the table).

This convenient new lifestyle change is available today, so what are you waiting for?

Now, just to warn you: if you’re looking for some inspirational quotes set on a background of a sunset to take you through to 2015 then you’re in the wrong place.
I’m also not stupid enough to put my resolutions down in writing so they can be held against me in a court of law when I give up on January 3rd.
This is simply a review of our year.
Before I started this I’ve had a very negative view of 2014 but now that I’ve sat down and written this I realise that I’ve let one (albeit massive) bad point paint the whole year as a rubbish one.
So, let’s start with the good:

The High Points (Chronologically)

I’ve had to look back through my photos to remember the start of the year. I would blame the baby brain I’m currently experiencing but the truth is – despite what I tell your Father – I’ve a woeful memory.

I finally got a hobby.It’s hard to believe that prior to February this year I had never even attempted running. It’s even harder to believe that’s it’s now something I miss and can’t wait to get back to properly once this baby makes an appearance.

We went to Rome – well, your Dad and I did.

Daddy and I are home birds. We never caught the travelling bug and by the end of our two-week honeymoon in Kenya we were happy to get home. However, anyone that knows me, knows the only place I’ve ever really wanted to go to is Rome.

Specifically to stand at the Trevi Fountain, and this year I finally got to do it.

To be fair, we got continuously lost on one of the days and ended up back at this bloody fountain about five times (the carafes of wine didn’t help our sense of direction).

I made my wish and threw the coin in the water, I was awed by the Colosseum and Pantheon, we trekked up the Spanish Steps and went to visit the Pope.

We also managed to find an Irish Bar (obviously) and befriend a French couple – unfortunately a lifelong friendship wasn’t formed because I can’t even remember their names now…

The trip I’d waited many years for was everything I’d hoped it would be.

You turned One

This was my favourite day of the year. You couldn’t stand unaided yet so hiring a bouncy castle for the day seemed like the sensible thing to do.

My justification of this was: your older cousins would need entertaining. In reality it was mostly your uncles and Dad making the most of it.

I wrestled you into a shirt and dickie bow which lasted an hour before you got sick everywhere – I know you did that on purpose – and when we all stood around the table to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ you never looked happier.

My heart could have burst.

I forgot how much I hated pregnancy

Case in point of how naff memory is: you’re getting a baby brother!

There’s no need to rehash old ground on how rubbish I am at the whole pregnancy thing – you were there first time round so you know.

It’s been marginally easier this time round, with only one hospitalisation, two iron infusions and 74 nights with zero sleep (thanks pregnancy insomnia).

We’re into the last four weeks and I’ve nothing ready – our house doesn’t even have floors never mind a Moses basket sitting serenely in the corner.

You’re a talking, toddling, terror

By talking I mean you say a few words NONE OF WHICH ARE MUMMY.
Everything is ‘dada’. Traitorous baby.
The overall change in you in the last year is amazing. You’re a proper big man now and sometimes I catch myself looking at you not quite believing you’re here and at the same time not remembering what life was like before you.

Christmas Day

You don’t quite ‘get’ Santa – although you can say his name and ‘ho, ho, ho’.

Despite this, it was lovely having a proper Christmas back in the house and watching you play with your presents.

You’re going through a bit of a Minion obsession so there was a definite theme this year. I even managed another year of avoiding the cooking as we shipped ourselves out to Aunty Jenny’s. It was amazing, although I’m starting to panic that they may actually think it’s my turn next year.

I relish this challenge.

Here’s hoping they like beans on toast.

The Not-So High Points

A Glitch in the system

All the great parts were overshadowed by that whole pesky mental breakdown thing but I’ve written enough about it here so it’s another point I don’t need to go over again.
It’s staying where it belongs: 2014.

And beyond

I’m very excited about the New Year.
We’re currently homeless, I’m heavily pregnant and surviving on very little sleep.
It’s starting off well…
Don’t worry it’s not as bad as I’m making out – the homeless part I mean.
We’ve packed up our lives in the village of the damned and bought a house in Newry.
Well, technically the bank owns the house we just have a mortgage.
January will be an ungodly race against the clock to get the house sorted and moved into before the time bomb, or your brother as we should be calling him, arrives.
It’s a great kind of stress to be under so I’m not going to complain about it.

And that’s that.
A year summed up, just like that.
Here’s to the next one.

‘Baby Brain’ is a phrase that’s thrown around a lot when a woman is pregnant.
Unfortunately, over the last few months (well, weeks to be fair) I’ve done very little to dispel this stereotype.
In my defense, I’ve always been pretty clumsy.
One of your Dad’s favourite memories of me is when I accidentally punched myself in the face while I was lying in bed.
Aunty Ciara regularly hears me curse down the phone when I forget that you need to push a door open before walking into it and I constantly drop my phone onto my face when trying to read a message lying down.
I’m also the perfect height for whacking my sides off tables. A lot.

Although this pregnancy has resulted in less stays in hospital, it has exacerbated the dreaded ‘Baby Brain’.
I find myself mid sentence not remembering what on earth I was talking about or asking questions like: “Why don’t the ice caps fall off and go into space?” That gem was met with a stunned silence from your Father at lunchtime today.
To be clear, I know it’s because of gravity but for those two minutes I just couldn’t get my head around it.

The bad news is: this ridiculous condition is getting worse.

Last week, I decided that you and I would have dinner in the Living Room (it was gammon, mash, gravy and veg – this is important).
I sat my plate down and got you settled on your seat with dinner.
In the thirty seconds it took to do this I completely forgot that I’d already brought my dinner in and I settled myself on the sofa…right on top of the plate.
The cream, fabric sofa is now nicely decorated with gravy stains that squelched out the sides.
Your dad came home to find me sitting on the sofa with my trousers off watching tv.
He didn’t ask any questions and accepted this as normal behaviour – which should really tell you the level of insanity he’s been coming home to on a regular basis.

I’ve not let this culinary disaster stop me from being my usual domestic goddess self *ahem*.
I decided to make some butternut squash and red pepper soup to bring into work.
Being organised, for a change, I had it sitting waiting in the blender for me this morning.
You can see where I’m going with this can’t you?
I came downstairs ready to leave and switched the blender on.
If you’re curious, blenders work fine without the lid on.
You and your Dad came into the kitchen to find me covered in soup. It was a lovely orange shade that did nothing for my colouring unfortunately.

You may be reading this and thinking it’s all harmless fun but I haven’t got to the worst one.

Continuing with my domestic goddess-like behaviour, I was recently cleaning the kitchen before we were to head out to visit Granny Annie and Granda Seamus.
Before leaving, I could swear that I smelt something ‘odd’ but decided that it was my hyper-sensitive pregnancy nose.
When we arrived home, weary and ready for bed your Dad opened the door to the unmistakable smell of a gas-filled house.
I’d successfully managed to leave the gas on the hob on. For seven hours.
So after opening all the upstairs windows, we decamped to Granny Betty’s for the night.
Que sobbing Mummy who kept saying: “I nearly killed us all.”
As you can imagine, it was a fun evening for your Dad.
By the next morning the house had properly aired and it was safe for us all to come home again.
This incident has now resulted in me checking the hob at least six times before going to bed.

Now, I’m not one to be paranoid but I’m beginning to sense that you are not helping my condition.
You’ve started a fun habit of hiding things around the house which is making it difficult to figure out if it’s me losing things or you purposely finding new places for them.

So far I’ve found the house phone in the letter box, my keys in the tumble dryer and my glasses were last seen on your mischievous face. Don’t deny it, here’s the proof:

I’m begging you for a truce. My brain isn’t working at full capacity and this is just bullying.
I will remember this in later life – who am I kidding I won’t remember this by the time I hit ‘publish’.

It’s been a strange year and it’s not about to get any quieter.
It seems that despite being very vocal about my rubbish time being pregnant with you, it didn’t put me off.
That theoretical sibling we’ve been talking about has become a literal one.
Any plans to make a cute announcement as suggested by the evil Pinterest went out the window when I was admitted to hospital with hyperemesis gravidarum AGAIN.
I’m not sure why my children like to try and kill me through dehydration but it’s not cool guys; not cool.

During that fun time in hospital I missed you incredibly and was feeling very sorry for myself, so I asked your Granny Betty to bring me a funny movie to watch on the laptop.
I specifically asked for one that would distract me from being separated from my son.
In her wisdom she brought me ‘Philomena’.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s a fantastic movie but not one to watch if you don’t want to have your heart broken.
The fact that it’s about a woman’s search for her son after he was illegally adopted didn’t exactly distract me from being away from you.
Thanks Mum.

On the upside, this baby has only had me in hospital once (so far) so it’s automatically been bumped to the favourite child spot, sorry.

I haven’t given much thought to the practicalities of having a second child just yet. To be honest I’m trying to survive being pregnant.
When the reality of it hits, it’s usually around 4am and I’m wide awake asking: “How the hell am I going to do this?”
I’m not going to lie, there’s been a lot of cold sweat and panicky moments over the last few months.
I hope the excitement of it all will overtake the fear aaaaaany day now.

You’re not going to be happy about this new addition, I’m preparing for this already by randomly picking up strangers’ children and pretending to take them home.
If you think you’re unhappy just think how the parents of those children feel? Don’t worry, I give them back before any charges are brought up.

The cats weren’t happy with you coming to town but now they’ve learned to accept it by creepily glaring at you through the kitchen window 24/7.
I won’t make you live outside when the baby comes or anything so already you’re doing better than them.

We’ve still got five months to figure all this out so let’s not panic more than we have to.
In the meantime I vote for blissful ignorance, you in?